


Down The Avenue

by Silverfern500



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, But it's Wade so, Disfigurement, Human Wade Wilson, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nice Peter, Or aren't there? Who knows not me, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Protective Peter Parker, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade Wilson has depression, Wade Wilson has feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 04:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18957991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverfern500/pseuds/Silverfern500
Summary: It's a good thing it was Peter, who was dared to knock on old man Wilson's door. Too bad it was winter, and Peter; one who has little tolerance for the cold (like the spiders of the area, he'd rather curl up and die than be out in the snow). Luckily, old man Wil - uh, Wade - finds he has a soft spot for Peter. Like a sore-to-touch bruise he didn't know he had, until those melting brown eyes found his and showed him just where his weakness lay. And if Wade found Peter as enticing as the web-slinger on the news, well. What difference did that make? Semantics.





	Down The Avenue

It wasn't a scary house on a hill that had him shocked still on the road. There wasn't a hill, and the house was an innocuous, HOA approved, residential two-story. Green chipping paint. Lawn no more overgrown than is usual for a busy resident. Nothing hinting at it being anything other than a ticky-tacky house in a row full of identical ticky-tacky houses. Peter couldn't believe he'd been talked into this. For one, it was evening, and it was cold. The tell-tale chill of a Maine winter gnawed at his fingertips and nose. Turning his ears to nettles and nausea, to the point where he'd feel ill if he stayed out much longer. And two, none of his coworkers' stories added up. They all hinted at being the very concocted nature of gossip. There was no way the man at 262 Wilmet Ave was a vampire, or a cannibal, or an abductor. Was there?

Peter groaned. Pinching his brow with two fingers, as he shook off all mis-placed nerves. _Wasn't he past the age for hazing?_ The memory of scuffed hands catching hallway linoleum, teachers' turning their heads and the proverbial blind eye. The circular bite of stolen schoolyard cigarettes on his skin. Reminded him. If he had a chance to fit in, this time.... See, Peter only _thought,_ as most teenagers unfortunately do, that highschool mentality has to end with highschool. But as most will figure out soon after becoming adults, cliques and drama and bullying don't end when you get your diploma.

So, only two weeks into his new job as a lab technician, Peter had laughed at his colleagues' dare. Plain, hysterical laughter. And it wasn't because his peers _couldn't be serious_. It was because he didn't believe there _was_ anything wrong with the man who lived up the street from their lab, at 262 Wilmet Ave. He'd even walked up the hill with confidence and a little bit of flippancy. Standing in front of it now, though, Peter felt all that bravado melt away like a popsicle on a summer sidewalk. He was a coward. It's okay, he'd proudly admit that. Coward all the way. Cowardice and due vigilance kept one safe, you know.

The innocent green house loomed before him all the same. No lights inside to indicate anyone's presence. Though the dilapidated old ford truck in the driveway was proof enough. Peter took a deep breath in, and approached. Walking up the three steps to the front door. All he had to do was knock, all he had to do was... was.... Hurt a most likely innocent man, who just happened to be the outcast. Like Peter had been the outcast. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Lifted a shaking hand, and knocked firmly on the door.

No voice nor light greeted him. He started to wonder, with relief, if nobody was home after all. His clammy hands fisted in his jeans pockets as he turned, taking one step away. Until he heard the creak of the old hinges on the door as it opened, just a few inches. Peter, though he'd deny it in the future, jumped.

“Whaddya want?” came a gruff, deep voice. Like mud volcanoes sluggishly pouring down a hillside. Like in the early morning, before coffee, after getting over a cold. Like the man hadn't used his voice in months. Instead of intimidating Peter, it just made him feel.. sad.

Peter shifted, huffing out warm air onto his frozen fingers as he held them up. “I'm uh.” He started, teeth chattering. “I'm looking for Wade? Listen honestly I didn't mean to bother you, I'm sorry.”

The man, Wade, rolled his eyes. “You're sorry,” he mimicked, sarcastically.

Okay, Peter deserved that. Suddenly he really felt like this was a mistake. He didn't need to fit in with his peers badly enough to disturb this stranger. He just wanted to go home, sink into a hot bath, and forget this night happened. “I shouldn't be here.” He mumbled, turning on his heel to go.

An array of emotions crossed Wade's face as he watched the younger man walk away. Anger at the boy, for seeking him out on what was probably a dare. But also disappointment, and pity. He watched through the crack in the door as the brunet fell backwards, hit in the chest by a snowball some teen had been aiming at his house. His frown, etched into his face over the years, deepened. “I'm not gonna intervene.” He mumbled to himself. “No, shut up. It's none of my business if he looks half frozen.” He cocked his head as his thoughts continued piping up. Years of loneliness did wonders on the psyche. “Now that's just vulgar,” he almost whined inwardly at a particularly dirty mental comment.

Peter was sprawled where he'd fallen back on his ass, stunned. Snow dampening his backside through his jeans. As the young girl who'd nailed him with what turned out to be an ice ball, turned and ran. His chest stung, but he'd be okay. And it was okay if he felt like crying, too. He realized he hadn't been the one targeted, but it just brought back all the memories of when he _was_. That girl could have easily been his highschool bully Eddy, shoving him into a locker. Things he should have been numb to. As numb as his skin in this cold, as numb as... _shit_ , he was not going to have a panic attack. Not here, in front of house 262. Bending his head down to his knees, Peter counted backwards from 30. He felt trapped, aware of eyes on him. The man behind him. Yet Peter.. didn't feel anything particularly threatening from that doorway.

Apparently it wasn't okay to Wade, that Peter looked close to tears. As he watched the boy doubled over, clearly whispering something to himself with rapid breaths. Despite his best efforts, Wade's heart clenched. Thing was, a decade ago Wade wouldn't have cared if some young guy sniveled in front of him. He was the self-absorbed charismatic jock. Voted most popular in HS, though accolades like that only mattered to those who peaked inside four teenage-hormone ruled years. Respected and decorated General, later on - now that hardened him. There was no reason Wade should have gained an ounce of empathy through the events following his enlistment. But there he was, cursing himself as he watched the cute brunet huddle into a ball at the bottom of his steps.

Opening his front door all the way for the first time in months, Wade stepped out. Startling Peter with heavy footfalls on the creaky wood planks of his porch. “Get up.” Wade grunted. Disgusted by the way Peter's brown eyes found his in startled fright. He turned his gaze skyward, before leaning down to grab one of the boy's biceps. Hauling him up, uncaring of Peter's spluttered 'hey!' of protest.

Once standing and released, Peter stumbled a step backward. Almost tripping back onto the sidewalk in his haste. With the overwhelming feeling of wanting to brush his arm off, Peter's upper arm crawled and he grit his teeth when he realized he couldn't. Couldn't do anything about the itch. With his poor blood circulation, his fingers had gotten to the point where any more exposure to the air outside his coat pockets could be grounds for amputation. His toes weren't doing so great in his snowboots, either.  
  
A hot bath. Everything for a hot bath. A fire, 30 blankets.... to huddle under the covers and forget his coworkers and the entirety of this unfortunate situation. That's all Peter wanted. Anxiety turned to shock, however, and he just stood there; paralyzed, instead. Looking into the man's blue eyes. And then he saw. Noticed.

Wade's skin was discolored, with dark, feathering markings. As if his veins were all tattooed, scarred or branded to be seen better. Peter knew he shouldn't be staring. It was rude. But he couldn't stop. And not for the reasons the others around town would stare, no. Wade was beautiful. Short yellow hair, early- dawn blue eyes. Strong jaw. Clean shaven. Nose broken a few times. But what Peter was drawn to notice most, were those artistic patterns across Wade's exposed forearms and neck.  
He also felt envy. Wishing he could be out in the cold without so many layers, Peter suddenly narrowed his eyes at Wade's white T-shirt with vehemence.

Wade watched the boy look him over, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Uncomfortable, but unsure of how to respond. He was over how people reacted to him, honestly. He could wait until Peter made another move, or spoke. To gauge how best to respond to the boy's shock. But with growing trepidation, Wade realized he'd have to get the younger man inside. And _soon_. Peter had stopped shaking, and given how violently he had been shivering before, that was a _bad_ sign.

“Alright icicle, in you go.” Wade demanded roughly, though not unkindly. _Is an icicle an innuendo? .... If you ask the right crowd, it could be_. When Peter's eyes went impossibly wider, Wade rolled his own eyes and grabbed Peter's forearm, marching him up the steps and through his door. Not releasing him until the boy finally stood his own ground, just inside. That was fine. As long as the boy was inside. And not dying on his porch.  
  
_Hello give us a name? And indicate that the young protagonist is at least 23? Thank you._

Peter was probably in shock, honestly. Inside a stranger's house and absolutely freezing. Especially since his host only seemed to spout gibberish whilst Peter was led further inside, and was sub-sequentially hit with a blast of warm air from the older man's living room. The heater, which was clearly on, was indeed welcoming. Though it made Peter's nose and fingertips sting. He didn't know what to do then, so he squeaked out an “I'm Peter, er, Parker. It's nice to meet you?” in such an unsure tone, it made the other guy's eyes narrow at him. Should he offer his hand to shake? But it didn't seem like Wade would be okay with that.

“Wade.” Wade grunted. “Wade Wilson.” and then with some hesitation, he _did_ awkwardly hold out his hand toward Peter. Which Peter took, and Wade couldn't help the hiss he let out. It was a wonder Peter even still had fingers, _damn_. Soft, even though calloused. Wade would have held onto Peter's hand, yet.... Ice, _ice, ice_. Peter's hand was too cold for even Wade, _and no ice baby_.

Peter retracted his hand quickly, cocking his head at Wade, knowingly. “I have poor blood circulation” he defended.

It took a moment for Wade to catch up, but then he ran a large palm over his face, which was scrunched up with disbelief. Unaware that Peter tracked his every movement. “I said that out loud, did I?" wade groaned. "Well no helping it, baby boy, one way or another we gotta get you warmed up.” And with that, Wade stepped away, leaving a bemused Peter behind. In actuality, Wade had simply taken a few steps over to the entryway closet, to pull out some mittens and a winter hat for his unwitting guest. But as far as Peter knew, the man was pulling out guns, or... or.... _Snap out of it, Peter_. He had to believe the best out of the handsome one whose house he was trespassing in. _Believe the best, or come back later in spandex...._

Because Wade wasn't a freak. He certainly had shown no signs of being a vampire, or an abductor... barring current events of having ushered Peter, himself, inside. And though Hannibal taught him to be wary, Peter was pretty sure Wade wasn't a cannibal either. Just unused to social situations. And Peter could understand that. More than he wanted to. And as Wade thrust two mittens and a beanie towards him, all Peter could do was blush. Searching those blue, azure eyes, tracing his gaze along that chiseled jaw bone, and then again along Wade's webbed markings. As Peter noticed Wade appraise him much the same. With embarrassment, Peter dragged his gaze back to Wade's. And they both blinked. Finding only slight amusement, and trepidation, there, Peter finally looked away. Down to the floor. There was much he didn't understand.  
  
And he had just been trying to win a dare, and gain an 'in' with his coworkers... !! .... _damn it_.

Peter blushed. “Thank you,” he muttered, “you really didn't.. you shouldn't have.. thank you.” He fumbled. Unsure of just how to say _how many years_ of his life he would have given for the warmth Wade had ushered him into. Just how many _toes_ he'd give for another glimpse of Wade's eyes. Just how much he'd abandon for Wade to hold him as he.... Peter listed to the side, dizzy from temperature shock as he simultaneously felt as if he were full of black ice, and hot coals.

Wade panicked. Catching Peter before his head could bounce atop his carpet. Carefully raising the boy's body and laying it gently on his couch, Wade then called paramedics for advice, a strained and high stringiness to his voice. The vague notion that Wade Wilson shouldn't _care_ or be _attached_ to a stranger like this, in the slightest... well that was a voice in his head which sounded like Weasel's, and as such, was completely forgotten.  
Because as Wade eyed the brunet, a hope he never thought to see re-lit, kindled. As the evident, slight rise of Peter's chest, bore witness that the boy was breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to happen?  
> Hello from Yellowstone in the USA?  
> Everything is hell please suggest anything, ever?  
> This started (can you believe it) as a non fanfic story, so. Maybe it will... have more chapters. Idk. My writing bug is /shrug since I started this new job.
> 
> (But for fic's sake let's say Spidey is Spidey but better at separating his civilian self from his hero self than I am at separating my work life from my social. And for fic's sake let's say Wade was a soldier of sorts, maybe engaged once, and definitely disfigured... by lightening. But not mutated. With me? Uh. Let's go)
> 
> (**also, also, I do have Raynaud's phenomenon / syndrome / poor blood circulation in general - aka, I usually shut down from cold or or faint from heat exhaustion. It sucks)


End file.
